


Sherlock Holmes and the curious case of hot Mycroft

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sherlock, BAMF Mycroft, Gen, Humour, Mycroft's Umbrella
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:41:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9048445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: Sherlock is in shock when he discovers that his brother is considered attractive by more than one person. Convinced that Mycroft has a hidden agenda, Sherlock starts an investigation.





	

Sherlock knows the type. A client who cannot focus long enough to string two sentences together without blushing, licking her lips and releasing quiet sighs. He's used to the admiration of the simpletons, mostly disguised as vexation, but infatuated fans is a new experience. It's awful, whenever they pose as potential clients, he can only think of the time he's wasting. 

He is having such a meeting now. A woman, almost thirty, mild addiction to prosecco, unhappy marriage, two cats. She suspects her husband cheats on her regularly, yet she seems oddly calm about it. Something else is the cause of her nervous anticipation. One more minute and she will ask if Sherlock wants to have coffee.

The woman takes a deep breath, gathers up her courage and says, 'Does your brother visit you often?' She looks around as if she expects Mycroft to walk in any second.

A spy, Sherlock thinks, one of Moriarty's minions or Magnussen's accomplices. Or a brand new enemy, in sheep's clothing, doing her research on how to get to Mycroft.

A deeply disturbing thought creeps into his mind. Could Mycroft be involved in someone else's midlife crisis? Isn't half of his bed covered in cobwebs?

She swallows and discreetly wipes her sweaty hands on his skirt. 'Is he seeing anyone?'

 

Weeks later, he notices a strange pattern. Whenever Mycroft is on his way to his brother's flat, Baker Street fills with women of various age. Their eyes are fixed on their phones, they readjust their scarves, reapply lipstick, walk up and down the street pretending they are just busy with their lives, yet every few seconds they glance towards 221 b. When Mycroft gets out of the car, they pause whatever they are doing, staring at him, and wait until he leaves to repeat the process. How could Sherlock not notice this sooner and more importantly, what was happening? 

Before he confronts Mycroft, Sherlock consults the puzzling issue with John. He sees no mystery in this. 

'I wondered when you would start to investigate this,' John smiles. 'The explanation is simple. People think Mycroft is hot. Case closed.'

Sherlock's brain cannot process this startling information. 

'John, I'm serious. What if it's a female terrorist organisation, planning to kidnap Mycroft?'

John laughs. 'Honestly, Sherlock, this has nothing to do with terrorism. You are not the only Holmes brother with groupies.'

He is not joking, but he is amused and has that 'must write about it on my blog' look on his face. Sherlock shakes his head, unable to accept's John's theory. Not just because he has a wild craving for a new, thrilling case. It is simply impossible for anyone to be attracted to Mycroft. The sheer thought sickens Sherlock and he pulls a face. John observes him, no doubt to describe his expression in details in his newest blog entry. 

'This is not...' Sherlock mutters faintly, as an old memory returns. The trauma associated with it was so severe he subconsciously blocked it for years. He was in the process of making friends with an impressionable classmate, she asked if she could visit him to, yes, see his extensive collection of rocks. Sherlock barely started describing the most interesting ones when they heard Mycroft's voice. The girl practically shoved Sherlock away and left his room in a hurry to catch the elder brother on the stairs. 

'Take your time,' John pats his back reassuringly, then opens his laptop and starts typing. 

'But he's dull and ugly!' Sherlock protests, moments away from throwing a proper tantrum. 'Old and fat!' 

'You're only saying this because you're related,' John tells him and immediately corrects himself,' No, I didn't mean it this way, I'm not gay!'

Sherlock has bigger problems than John's sexual orientation. He slides into his armchair, his head is spinning with the effort to solve the least appealing mystery he has ever encountered. He tries to clear his mind and look at Mycroft objectively. If he were not his sibling, would Sherlock consider him good-looking? Another wave of nausea leaves no doubt.

'John, if you know something that I don't, do enlighten me. What I am missing?'

John closes the laptop lid and inhales deeply. 'The time has come. All right, listen carefully. First of all, sexual attraction is not rational. There are no rules, no logic and no standards. You cannot choose the object of your affection, it happens without your conscious decision. Next, unless the person is extremely difficult yet easy on the eyes, it's rarely based solely on the appearance. You might have noticed married people who have unflattering tattoos, crooked teeth, abnormally long or short limbs, acne and so on.'

'They must be rich, then.'

'Not necessarily. Most of us are not that shallow. Personality, Sherlock, what's on the inside, this is what truly matters. As I have mentioned already, there is not a single definition of sexy, but there are all sorts of preferences. Some like extroverts, some introverts, some want a caring, loving partner, some are drawn to abusive types. Also, a healthy amount of confidence is important. Generally speaking, an outgoing, tactful and empathetic person with a normal level of self-esteem has a high chance of, you know, not dying as a virgin.'

'Fine. Now tell me why Mycroft is considered... I cannot even say his name and sexy in one sentence.'

'That's easy. He's unreachable, powerful, intelligent.'

'Intelligent,' Sherlock spits. 'He despises those whose intellect does not match his. That means everyone.'

'This may come as a shock to you, it does not make him any less desirable. No logic, remember? He's intimidating, that strikes the chord with those of submissive nature. He smokes as well.'

'Smoking is sexy?'

'Yes. Please, don't ask why.'

'Why? It kills.'

'That's why. There are no other reasons. Next, his name is unique'

'You're just making all these up, aren't you.'

'This is one of those things that you deem too trivial to pay attention to. I'm John, so I must be old-fashioned, trustworthy, dull. You're Sherlock, unusual, intriguing, extraordinary. Mycroft's name suits him well. Moreover, his aloofness attracts the attention of challenge lovers. What would make the Ice Man melt, they wonder. Let's not forget about his only weakness. The existence of it confirms that he's not a machine and makes him relatable. He may be scarily influential and worryingly clever, yet in the end, he is stuck with a drama queen, troublesome junkie of a brother. Loyalty and devotion, that what people see when they look at Mycroft. Not physical imperfections. Lastly, he does not wear clothes two sizes too small, unlike someone we both know. His waistcoats... I mean, the way he looks... _waistcoats_. His pocket watch, sleeve garters and his ring. I mean, that's what I heard... from other people.'

'Hmm. Mycroft is up to something. He would not make a conscious effort to invite interaction with goldfish. He's above love, either physical or spiritual, evolved not to need it.'  

'I'm fairly sure that he's still human and loves the attention, even if he is loath to admit it.'

'Unless this is a competition. He thinks he can make women swoon over him, while I'm constantly accused of being the awkward virgin.'

'Jesus, Sherlock.' 

 

Mycroft comes home late at night. His exhaustion is written all over his round face, fat covers his cheekbones and the grimace when he sees Sherlock changes him into a bitter, middle-aged man. The waistcoat he's wearing is not doing him any favours, the results of his sweet tooth are visible even for the least perceptive people. He's plain-looking, uncharismatic and self-restrained. Such a charmer.

'I've met your admirers,' he begins, tone laced with sarcasm. He still refuses to think they are not secret agents or assassins. 

Mycroft smiles knowingly and takes a seat opposite Sherlock. 'They are rather indiscreet. However, I never thought you would make the connection. I assume you have questions.' 

'I do. How are you doing this? Why?'

'Sherly, this concerns adults, you won't understand.'

Sherlock hates the nickname, the derisive tone and Mycroft patronising him, especially when he's right. 'I've consulted an adult. Heard the most peculiar things about you.'

'Is that so?'

Repeating John's description has Sherlock wincing with mortification. 

Mycroft rarely divulges his secrets, yet flattery works even on him. 'John forgot to mention my umbrella and my diet.'

Both seem utterly asexual. Sherlock frowns and waits for the illogical explanation of how it makes women go weak at the knees.

'You see, Sherly, people tend to avoid overly confident individuals. A single insecurity changes everything, they stop resenting you for being more intelligent than they are. I imply I'm on a diet because my little brother has been teasing me about weight. The response never changes:  _this is so relatable, my siblings tease me as well and to be honest, I cannot see much fat on you. Maybe if you take your clothes off...'_

The mental image of Mycroft's white, flabby stomach will haunt Sherlock for at least a fortnight.

'And the umbrella?'

Mycroft smirks, savouring the moment. 'You would not believe the associations it provokes. Firstly, it resembles a weapon. Have you heard the rumour about me beating a man to death with it?'

'You started it.'

'That's not the point. It's a popular opinion that it is poison-tipped or a concealed sword.'

'And you are a superhero in disguise?'

'Perhaps. Whenever it rains, goldfish have an excuse to get closer to me by standing under my umbrella. This must be confusing to you, but the idea of two people under one umbrella is romantic. That's how great love stories begin. Also, I hesitate telling you this, umbrellas are phallic objects.'

Sherlock is indeed positively discomfited.

' _Let me touch your big umbrella_ , they say. I have been invited to use as a spanking paddle more times than I can count. Another popular fantasy involves me pinning them down to the floor with the umbrella. The handle resembles a sex toy. You would not believe what people are willing to do with it. They are most creative when sex is involved.'

'Dear God.'

'If everything fails, I can still caress the handle with my hands, absent-mindedly and let them imagine my fingers trace up and down their naked bodies. It drives them crazy. They know it's a regular umbrella but arousal changes it into a sex aid.'

'This is what you do for entertainment during boring meetings. You seduce people with your umbrella.'

'I told you would not understand it. My motivation is of a different nature,' Mycroft explains, insultingly slowly. 'Unresolved sexual tension will get you everywhere. The more people desire you, the easier it becomes to distract them from things they should not know about and bend them to your will. One umbrella to rule them all.'

'So you are a just a giant tease,' Sherlock remarks tartly. 'You lead them on, use them for your benefit and leave them unsatisfied. Isn't that a recipe for disaster?'

'Please. I always use you as an excuse. _I'm terribly sorry, but my little brother is bullied at school, I have to be there for him_. Then, _my brother is a drug addict and I cannot afford any distractions, he needs me now_. Later, _I fear my brother will relapse and overdose again, he's my top priority at the moment_. Family first, everyone knows that.'

'You recycle the same story every time?'

Mycroft's smugness reaches a whole new level. 'Contrary to popular belief, I do exercise from time to time.'

Sherlock is glad he hasn't eaten all day, Mycroft's sudden honesty is revolting. He feels compelled to deprive him of his secret super-power and threatens, 'I'll buy an umbrella, then.'

'Oh, Sherly. It's too late, you've already made your choice. Your coat is your armour, protecting you from predators and your hair reminds people of a cute puppy. You're _the_ virgin. Did you think it was a coincidence that both Irene Adler and Jim Moriarty wanted to have their wicked way with you? You are too innocent and awkward to contain the power of the umbrella.'

Sherlock is consumed with helpless anger, as always when Mycroft has a point. 'One more thing,' _before I'll go and smoke ten cigarettes, all at once_ , 'John thinks you've stood by me when I was a drug user only to use it to manipulate people.'

Mycroft leans back, his face takes on an unreadable expression. 'Does he, now?' He voice is uninflected and no matter how much Sherlock tries to decode his body language, he fails. 

If it's true, if Mycroft managed to control regular people and even his much cleverer brother, then the question is when it started. Sherlock thinks abut his childhood and his adolescence. Was there any particular moment when the sibling dynamics changed radically? 

Suddenly, Sherlock can hear Mummy's voice, a touching story she used to tell whenever Sherlock voiced his suspicion that Mycroft hated him to the core. At the tender age of six, Mycroft asked Father Christmas for a baby brother. His next Christmas present was eleven days late but Mycroft could not be happier.

Sherlock lets the knowledge seep through him and is seconds away from making a spectacle of himself. He lost, the game they were playing from the start, he lost it even before he was born. He is an idiot, he realises and Mycroft is...

'It's time, Sherlock. Say it now, you'll feel better. Close your eyes, if you have to.'

Sherlock follows his advice, shuts his eyes and admits in a tearful voice of an upset boy, 'Mycroft, you're smarter than me.' When he looks at him, he sees Mycroft is busy with his phone.

'Set as ringing tone,' he mutters to himself. 'Set as message tone.' Then he lifts the phone and takes a picture of Sherlock, who is already hyperventilating. 'Send to... Greg.'

'Who?'

'You don't know him. You can cry now, Sherly, I'll have a slice of cake.'

Sherlock stays where he is, holding back sobs. He misinterpreted Mycroft's actions, must have. Mycroft wants him to think he has been an exceptional mastermind even as a child. Sherlock cannot accept the possibility of having underestimated his brother and refuses to consider being afraid of him. For now, it's easier to curl up into a ball and stare into the darkness.  

**Author's Note:**

> Practically British government is the new sexy. In my country, a hot guy is called a cake. Mycroft loves cake. Coincidence?


End file.
